Numbers
by M H E Priest
Summary: How Solo and Kuryakin got their badge numbers. This is an expanded revision of a 4-part story of the same name posted here.


**Numbers**

**Prologue**

_An implied reference to one of the plot points of The Arabian Affair_

Illya Kuryakin pushed aside the ratty window covering in the abandoned farmhouse in Verona, Wisconsin, some miles south of Madison. Cautiously but quickly, he surveyed the area. Satisfied that no one was around, he released the curtain and limped his way back to the living room and the five people sitting on the dilapidated furniture left behind.

"It appears we lost our tail," he said to no one in particular.

"In that case, since we're in a stable location, I'll call for a rescue," said Napoleon Solo, who winked with his non-injured eye at the twin boys clinging to their parents. The small gesture seemed to allay some of their stress. He rose and walked to the back of the house out of earshot of the others.

While Solo contacted Mr. Waverly in New York, Illya gingerly settled himself on a low-slung chair with much of its seat stuffing missing. "I apologize to you and your family, Dr. Jenson, for the ride here. I know it was frightening for all of you. Hopefully you will be ensconced in an U.N.C.L.E. safe house shortly."

Jenson, a tall man in his mid-60s with the pasty complexion of someone who rarely ventured outdoors, gave a self-conscious laugh as he ran a shaky hand through his graying sandy hair. "That was … exciting, to say the least, Mr. Kuryakin. Anyway, we'll get over all of it, I'm sure. I can't thank you and Mr. Solo enough for what you've done for me, uh, _us_ already. That fight was something else. And your driving was … exceptional. Mr. Solo's eye is already impressively bruised. How's your leg?"

Illya was tiring of having to be civil to this monster and his feigned concern. "It is of no consequence." He believed he had suffered a contusion to his femur from an exceptionally hard kick delivered by a judo expert determined not to let Jenson be taken. Who, Illya was most pleased to note, was surely nursing an injured larynx, thanks to his return punch.

"Well, you both are very effective and brave. That's why I requested you for my defection from THRUSH."

"It is you who is the brave one, Doctor. To leave an organization such as THRUSH is quite hazardous to one's health."

"All I can say is thank heaven for the visit from one of your agents. I didn't believe him at first that THRUSH was killing its rank-and-file members when they reached 65. But when I tried to contact retired colleagues and found out they had died under mysterious circumstances or had simply disappeared, I knew your man was right."

"Honey," said Jenson's much younger wife, a former student of his as well as a chemical engineer herself, "can we not talk about this in front of the children?" She was still trembling from witnessing the brawl between the U.N.C.L.E. agents and their THRUSH counterparts, not to mention hanging on for dear life during the harrowing pursuit by those counterparts.

Jenson had the grace to look contrite. "You're right, sweetheart."

She smiled her gratitude and the room quieted.

Soon, Napoleon rejoined them. "Well, good news. Mr. Waverly is calling in a favor. There should be a Huey helicopter from Fort McCoy coming for us as soon as the Army can arrange it. Now we wait."

"I shall take the watch," Illya said, his eagerness to leave the defector and his young family apparent in his too-quick response. He limp-strode as much as the injury allowed to return to the front window furthest from the living room.

Napoleon covered Illya's understandable rudeness with a congenial smile. "If you'll excuse me, my partner and I have some plans to discuss." Moments later, he was standing next to Illya, choosing to look out the window rather than at his partner.

Softly, Napoleon said, "I feel the same way, Illya. But I want to remind you that though this man consulted with THRUSH scientists on many of the drugs and gases they developed and used on innocent people, not to mention us, he is to be considered an asset."

"That does not make it any easier to be around him, Napoleon. He made the choice to harm, not help."

Napoleon sighed. "True. But maybe he can partially redeem himself, eh?"

"I will not hold my breath."

Solo chuckled. "Neither will I."

They continued to watch for anything out of place in the bucolic setting for several minutes in companionable silence until Napoleon asked, "You ever wonder who assigned our particular badge numbers?"

Illya tossed his friend a puzzled look. "That question is a bit out of the blue. Why is this concerning you now?"

"Yeah, well, I've always been curious. Haven't you?"

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. "I am curious about many things, but not that."

"That you are. It is trivial, but still ..." He paused. "I do wonder why sometimes why I was assigned the 11 badge."

Illya gnarred his frustration with his partner deep in his throat. "You are trying my considerable patience, Napoleon." After a pause, he said, "Perhaps the reason you have that particular badge number is that you are part Canadian."

"And how did that twisted big brain of yours come up with that particular guess?"

Illya permitted himself a smug look. "The Canadian emblem of the maple leaf has 11 points."

"How on earth do you know that useless piece of information?"

The Russian sighed as if he were a parent tiring of his child's ridiculous questions. "There is no such thing as useless information. Every bit just needs proper context to be useful."

"Is that from _Bartlett's Familiar Quotations_ or _Babusya Kuryakina's Fireside Chats_?" Solo teased.

Illya scowled at his friend for the dreadful quip. "It is well known that your success in the field has been due in part to your rather … unconventional thinking." Illya's lips twitched as he tried to keep from grinning. "It could be said that you're a _lun_atic, Napoleon."

Solo's brow wrinkled at the emphasis his partner had put on the first syllable of "lunatic." "Care to explain yourself further, Professor Obscure?"

"There are five species of loons in Canada. So now you have two reasons why you have that particular badge number."

Napoleon grimaced and raised his hand as if to strike Illya, who was now grinning.

"Smart-aleck Russian," he muttered. "Just remember what else Number 2 stands for, my friend."

Because it would be bad form to engage in a laughing fit they both felt coming on, Napoleon quickly departed for the living room for some nerve-soothing of their "guests."

**1943**

_March, Kiev, Ukraine, USSR_

Though in his mid-50s and having lived through hard times in the Great War, the Great Slump, and now partway through another world war, Alexander Waverly possessed the vigor of a man half his age. He also had expertise in guerrilla warfare. This ability had garnered him a summons from a small group of independent resistance fighters that disagreed with the Ukrainian Insurgent Army's collaboration with the German forces as an ill-conceived path to independence from the Soviet Union. Signs and countersigns, appropriately enough, would be paraphrases of Pushkin's _Ode to Liberty_.

Careful to assume the worn clothing and droop of a much older man, he made his way unchallenged to the rendezvous point. He explored the ruined building but found no one. Finding a sturdy stool, he sat down to wait, eventually drifting off.

Sometime later, he awoke with a yawn. When he opened his eyes, before him stood an urchin, hair, face, and clothes the color of dirt, skinny to the point of frail, but with the brightest, most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen; they missed nothing. He could feel the boy taking his measure, feel the distrust, the wariness, the readiness to fight or flee. The boy was surely no more than six. Alex bemoaned the loss of yet another childhood.

"Ah, you startled me, young man," he said in French, the language agreed upon in the invitation.

"We will attack the breach," the boy said in flawless French.

"That we will from on high," Waverly counter-signed, "with a force of honesty."

"No, of righteousness."

"And freedom vernal."

The ragamuffin paused for a long moment. He coughed, a phlegmy sound, before ordering, "Follow me."

Alex did, marveling at the boy's stealth and awareness of the environment. Ten minutes later, the boy showed him to a basement of another ruined building and left him in the company of four men.

"You survived the scrutiny of my son, so welcome, Alexander Waverly," said the large man with black hair and familiar eyes. "Thank you for making such a dangerous trip to help us improve our skills. I am called Nico."

Alex wondered if Nico was a diminutive for Nikolai or if it was his actual name. "Well, my good man, I do what I can to stop the Nazis in their quest for world domination. But first, what is your boy's name? And how old is he?"

"His name is Illya, but as he is young and you are a new friend, you may call him Illyusha. He is nine, though he will tell you 10. He is small, like his mother, may she rest in peace." A resigned sadness filled his eyes and tone. "But he is a warrior, nonetheless. He works magic with bombs. He is better than most with the knife and the long gun. It is thanks to him that he 'finds' food for us. And he is very bright, my boy is. He speaks German and French like a native. He reads whatever he can. He likes science, like his mama." Now there was pride, not boastfulness but a simple statement of fact, in his voice. "I will introduce my men and we will eat and drink and begin our learnings. Illyusha!" Nico called out. "Bring the tray!"

The boy stayed with them as they consumed homemade vodka that Alex thought would make him spontaneously combust—even the boy drank a little—with stale black bread and moldy cheese. Alex could tell the silent child absorbed everything that was spoken and seemed to understand it.

By the end of the first meeting, Alex had grown to respect the small band of patriots. In turn, they showed their acceptance and appreciation of him by declaring they would call him by his Ukrainian name: Sasha.

oOo

Illyusha showed Alex to his sleeping mat in a corner of the basement. He bowed and turned to leave, but Alex caught hold of the thin arm. The boy hissed in pain and gave the Englishman an icy glare.

Alex removed his hand quickly, as if it had been cold-bitten by the look. "I am sorry, young man. Are you hurt?"

Illyusha wavered, seeming to be debating with himself on whether to answer truthfully or at all. Finally, decision made, he shook his head a little too adamantly to be the truth.

"That is good, then. Injuries are no laughing matter, you know. Sit with me for a bit, won't you?"

Alex was heartened to see the hesitation in the boy, but wasn't surprised when he replied, "No. We must sleep now. We have much to do in the days to come." Off he went to join his father on the pallet they shared. Alex watched Nico curl protectively around his son and listened to their soft, animated murmurs, probably in Russian or Ukrainian. As he pulled the threadbare blanket he suspected had once been a forest green over his deeply chilled bones, he felt a mixture of envy and relief that he had not and probably never would have to do something like this with his own son. He also felt gratitude that his family was no longer in London, no longer worrying and hoping to survive the next bombing. Until they had escaped to the countryside, his anxiety had been enough to drive him to distraction. If they had been living in occupied Kiev, he would've been paralyzed with fear. He was impressed beyond words how Nico seemed to take this all in stride.

He watched Nico kiss the top of the boy's head, heard Illyusha giggle. Later, Alex would remember that was the only innocent or joyful sound he ever heard the boy utter.

oOo

The next day, training began in earnest.

Alex started with showing them how to develop a variety of codes: of subtle gestures, of written notes, of covert meanings assigned to passages of well-known songs.

Alex assessed their skills with weapons. Nico had been in the Russian army but was discharged before the war reached the Soviet Union due to loss of sight in one eye and hearing loss in one ear. His training, however, stayed with him and he'd adapted to his disabilities. He was especially talented with a knife, both close combat and throwing. Illyusha was nearly as proficient. Anatoly, a butcher before the war, was, not surprisingly, most adept with a cleaver; his accuracy with throwing it was astounding. The others were average with the blade. He advised Nico to work with them to improve their skills, and perhaps allow Illyusha to help him.

"I am not sure of that, Sasha. The others will be too proud to have a boy teach them."

_Some things are the same everywhere_, Alex thought as he nodded his head in agreement.

Not to his surprise, Alex discovered that Illyusha was even better than his father with both a pistol and a sniper rifle. Guns seemed to be an extension of his small body. Alex gave him a few tips on how to breathe and focus and account for movement and environmental conditions, assuring him that his already formidable proficiency in this would improve further. Alex shivered when he saw the delighted yet feral expression on Illyusha's face. His sudden discomfort about the boy made him shudder when the youngster took the purloined German sniper rifle and shells and left their hideout, presumably for more practice. _War steals a child's innocence and gives him nothing but bloodlust in exchange._

Alex tried to rationalize his teaching the boy to become a more efficient killer in order to survive, but failed. For the briefest of moments, he found himself wishing Illyusha wouldn't survive to face what he'd done when he reached maturity. Or not survive because he would probably become a cold-blooded, heartless killer, an assassin already trained, something coveted and ruthlessly used by the Soviet Union.

_If he survives, perhaps he will be able to leave this past behind. _Alex, ever the optimist, sighed.

He encouraged them to reach out to other groups like theirs, so they could share resources, avoid duplicating efforts, take on larger campaigns. Nico said he would consider it, but he feared there might be spies for the Insurgent Army in other resistance groups.

Alex countered with the suggestion that Illyusha to do some spying on his own. "I have observed his stealthiness. He can easily slip in undetected and listen to private conversations. I suspect he can follow without being observed."

Nico agreed with Alex's assessment and once again stated he would consider it. "He takes enough risks, Sasha. I shall only permit him to spy on _Natsysty, _no others."

oOo

On the third full day with his hosts, he discovered it was wash day for their few scraps of clothing, bedding, and bodies. The four men and Illyusha stood naked and shivering around a metal trough heated by wood scraps from decimated buildings. Off to the left was a small barrel, filled, he assumed, with hot water and their clothing. It was then that Alex noted how fair-complected Illyusha was, and how the thin yet muscled body was covered with assorted scrapes, cuts, and bruises, no doubt obtained while scrambling through the ruins and raiding the German stores for food, ammunition, and other goods.

Nico laughed at something Anatoly said, then turned to Alex. "We have enough hot water and soap for you, Sasha. Join us, so Anatoly won't complain about your odor."

Alex, not offended at the truth, laughed. War and necessity having loosened his modest tendencies, he stripped, mostly unself-conscious, to his skin as the others had. The brutal cold took his breath away. The men laughed at his ill-concealed misery.

"Hurry, Sasha," said Nico. "It is warmer here near the fire. And we huddle together for warmth as well. It is no _banya_, but it serves its purpose, no?"

Alex was aware of the custom of communal baths among Russian men, and he was honored as an outsider to be included in this bastardized version.

The men shared a bar of soap that they used to wash their hair as well as bodies, laughing at the sheer joy of getting clean. Nico helped Illyusha, who made it obvious he didn't care to have his hair shampooed. They took turns rinsing each other off with the water they dipped from the trough with a large pot. Finally, they wrapped themselves in thin towels. Alex noticed he was given the thickest one and that Nico and his son shared one towel. Once again, he was grateful that his son was living under better and safer conditions.

oOo

The small resistance group's training was coming to an end. Alex was pleased with how much they'd progressed in learning much of what was essentially guerilla warfare. It was time to plan a mission that would put at a minimum a demoralizing dent in the Nazi presence based on the intel gathered by Illyusha and Sergei, a baker before he'd lost his family and his business in the invasion of Kiev.

Alex helped the group formulate an action plan to be carried out just before dawn the next morning. Periodically, he watched Illyusha construct several incendiary devices with crude but effective timers with the confidence of an expert and the caution of respect for something that destroys. Once night fell, Illyusha, Nico, and Alex left to plant the bombs.

oOo

From his hiding place with Anatoly, Alex watched in awe as the devices ignited in near-perfect timing. As soon as they heard the surviving Germans yelling in confusion, every guerrilla rose and began shooting them. Only Illyusha stayed hidden in his sniper's nest.

Alex recognized the sound of Illyusha's rifle. With each shot, a Nazi fell. _Extraordinary_, he thought as he fired his own weapon.

As soon as the last German had fallen, the resistance fighters pulled back. They had butchered the enemy and suffered no casualties of their own.

Nico stopped his comrades 100 yards or so from the burning huts. "Ah, here is Illyusha now," he said as the boy ran toward them, rifle still ready for use. "Hurry, my -"

Alex didn't hear the gunfire; he only felt Nico's brain and bone splatter his face. He didn't see the shooter crumble to the ground, nor see another German rise. He felt something solid tackle him and grunt, and immediately roll off him.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw Illyusha come to a knee and fire in the same second. That shooter was dead before the next second ticked. Illyusha crumpled to his side, holding the side of his thigh where blood oozed between his fingers.

It was then that Alex realized that Illyusha took a bullet meant for him and avenged his father's death.

"We must go!" shouted Anatoly. "Sasha, carry Illyusha."

Alex flung the boy, who still held on to his rifle, over his shoulder. The boy had offered no resistance. Alex ran hard. Illyusha's wounded body was still, not shaking as one might think when one witnesses the death of a loved one. He could imagine the boy staring with dry eyes at his dead father. Alex's heart ached in his chest as he stifled the urge to cry for Illyusha's loss. Had he seen Illyusha thin arm reach out for his father, Alex would have unabashedly shed tears.

oOo

The deep graze was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged, during which Illyusha uttered no sound except the occasional _umph_. He went to his sleeping pallet. He laid down, pulling the blanket to his nose, and began inhaling, almost hyperventilating. Alex cringed at the thought that Nico's scent was all his son had left of him.

"What will happen to him now?"

Anatoly inhaled deeply. "Nico had Roma blood. We know where his tribe is hiding. Illya Nickovetch will join them. We will miss our little warrior."

Alex noted that the diminutive wasn't used. Perhaps the boy, with all that had happened, was now considered too mature to be called a child's name. "Yes, I suppose you will." Alex squatted next to the boy. Those amazing eyes now appeared to be as lifeless as Nico's. "It has been my good fortune to know you, Illya Nickovetch. After this war is over, ask for me at any British embassy or consulate. Tell them my English name and my Ukrainian name. That way I know it is you. Do you understand?"

For a long time, he stayed there, waiting for Illya to respond. When his knees rebelled, he stood and walked away. He was a few feet from the door when he heard a soft, "Why?"

He turned to look at Illya. "I want to know you are safe." _That you survived. Not sure you'll ever be safe._

"_Da_, Sasha."

**1954**

_April, Bruges, Belgium_

Though shy of 70 by several years, Alexander Waverly had slowed down only a step or two in the last decade. He attributed his energy and sharp mind to his latest purpose in life: stop THRUSH and any other blackguards from disrupting the hard-won yet fragile peace. Hence his reason for being in Bruges on a self-appointed mission to look into alleged THRUSH activity in the beautiful coastal city.

He thrust his gloved hands deeper into his wool coat; the winter chill hadn't loosened its grip on the city yet. Time, he decided, for a hot beverage. As always, he remained aware of his immediate surroundings.

It wasn't difficult finding a café. Before entering the building to place his order, he surveyed the people sitting at the outdoor tables. No one appeared threatening and or paid him notice, save two men.

They attempted to appraise him surreptitiously but Alex was a highly skilled spy. He perused them in turn, reasonably sure they knew he was reciprocating.

One man was white with black hair, dark, intelligent, nonthreatening eyes with a backdrop of wariness, strong, dimpled chin, trim, fit body clothed in an expensive cashmere coat. The other man was a Negro, wearing a chauffeur's cap and uniform. He too was fit but quite large, with intelligent, discerning eyes. He strongly suspected they were not whomever they would label themselves. Intrigued, Alex decided he would ask to sit with them once he had his cuppa.

oOo

He stifled a gasp when he saw the elderly man through the rifle's scope. It was his walk, the way he carried himself, that identified him. He doused the light of that recognition quickly so his spotter wouldn't notice.

oOo

Alex approached the table affecting a minor degree of hesitation, as if he were uncertain about bothering them. In French, he said, "Excuse my, um, presumptuousness, but I was wondering if I may join you. I am new here and find myself desiring some company."

"Of course, please do," the Caucasian man replied in oddly accented French. He and the other man rose partway out of their chairs as Alex placed his over-sized orange cup on the table before sitting. The two men returned to their seats.

oOo

He couldn't believe that Sasha was now sitting with his targets. His hand trembled like a dry leaf caught in a stiff breeze.

"What is wrong?" asked the other man.

"Nothing," he replied. "When I am hungry, sometimes my hands shake."

The spotter huffed. "You should have taken out the enemies long before this. Can you still kill them from here?"

"Yes, yes. This is good still."

The spotter looked through his binoculars. "Only you could, _koush _[deadeye]. Let's get this done." He started feeding the shooter estimated wind direction and speed.

oOo

"Do you speak English?" asked Alex. "I would prefer that for conversation as I find it difficult to think in French after a time. I am Alexander Waverly." He held his head over the cup to let the steam warm his face.

The white man smiled graciously. "We'd be happy to oblige you, Mr. Waverly. Pleased to meet you. I'm Einar Anderson and my personal assistant"—he nodded at his companion—"is Harold Johnson."

"Thank you, my good men. Pleased to make your acquaintance as well. What brings you to this lovely city?" Alex detected Anderson's relatively well-concealed vigilance but Johnson was obviously tense.

"Ah, I'm an importer/exporter and am traveling Europe to find markets."

_Stereotypical CIA cover_, Alex thought smugly. "That sounds, hmm, profitable."

"Well, I certainly hope so. There are a lot of deals to be made while the Continent continues to recover from the war. There is a lot of opportunity for those willing to provide hard-to-find goods and make money while doing it."

In just a short time, Alex surmised that Anderson could probably convince Newcastlers to purchase loads of coal. "Indeed. I should think so."

Further conversation halted as a bullet pierced the table and lodged itself in a cobblestone inches from Anderson.

Within a second, both Anderson and Johnson had Alex out of his chair and on the cold street, both covering him with their bodies. The people in the area screamed and shrieked and ran for cover.

Alex gasped at the weight on his body. Anderson covered his torso while Johnson lay across his legs. At the same time, he greatly appreciated the protection, especially if he were the target.

He felt Anderson rise slightly. "Third building to the left of the café, fourth or fifth floor."

"Got it," replied Johnson in a soft Texas drawl.

"Careful. I'll be there as soon as he's secured."

Anderson stayed atop Alex for a full minute before he said, "I don't think they'll try again, Mr. Waverly. However, to be safe, let's get you indoors. Less of a target there. Are you ready?"

"Yes, young man. I will likely need some assistance getting to my feet."

"Of course, sir. On the count of three ..." Anderson counted down and had Alex on his feet and in the building in seconds.

"Stay here." In French, he asked the clerk if there was somewhere the gentleman could hide. She nodded and led him to the restroom.

oOo

Without a word, the two men in the sniper's nest had packed up and run down the stairs, leaving the building through the back door.

"You _missed_! You said you could do it!"

The sniper snapped, "Even the best miss at times. You know how many variables must be taken into account."

"You will be punished for this."

"I am aware." He sighed and tried not to think of the flogging he'd receive. But Sasha and the intended victims were still alive. That made the coming misery worthwhile.

oOo

Anderson and Johnson entered the café 15 minutes later. "No luck. I think you're safe now," opined Anderson.

Alex asked, "Why do you think they were aiming for me? Why not you?"

"Ah, that's a distinct possibility. You see, you're not who you appear to be and neither are we."

"That would be agents of the U.S. Central Intelligence, I would surmise."

Anderson did a fair imitation of the boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. "Were we that obvious?"

"To me you were. My name truly is Alexander Waverly. I am head of Policy and Operations for U.N.C.L.E.-Northwest here on business."

Anderson clapped Johnson on the back and grinned sheepishly. "Napoleon Solo, at your service."

"And I'm Jason Walters, Napoleon's _partner_. I play at being his assistant."

Alex chuckled. He saw something special in both men, especially Solo. "Of course, gentlemen. Now, if I may, let us finish what we started and get to know each other better." He made his way to the table farthest from the door, Solo and Walters close behind.

"So tell me, gentlemen," Alex began once they'd settled into their chairs, "what made you think I wasn't an ordinary tourist?"

Solo tapped his closed lips with a forefinger. Walters sniffed and said, "Go ahead, Napoleon. The "assistant" turned to Waverly. "Napoleon is the loquacious one, Mr. Waverly. I prefer to keep my own counsel."

Again, Alex laughed softly. He liked the big man, though he wasn't sure how he felt about Solo. "Then, please, Mr. Solo, enlighten me, won't you?"

The white American's smile had a modest quality to it, along with a healthy dose of self-assuredness. "Jason and I have been trained to observe everyone in our vicinity. I had almost decided to write you off as a non-interest, but I finally noticed the subtlety of your own, ah, type of inspection of your surroundings. It didn't fit with a man who looks like a university professor, which I thought you might be, or a tourist, as you claimed. Jason agreed with me after a few more seconds of watching you."

Alex nodded a few times, deciding he liked this cock-sure man as well. If he were to join U.N.C.L.E., he would surely be a handful. "And why did you think I might have been the target?"

"Your bearing. Even in the short time before the shooting, it was obvious you're a man of power and confidence, a leader. And even though there were plenty of places for you to sit, you chose to approach us, certainly intending to find out if we were friend or foe."

"Be assured, Mr. Waverly, we are friend," interjected Walters.

"Indeed. That is why I'd like to chat with you about the possibility of working for my organization. Shall we?"

The CIA agents looked at each other. After several seconds, the black man nodded. Solo smiled back at him before turning his gaze back to Alex. "We'd be delighted to hear what you have to say."

oOo

The moment he returned from Bruges, Alexander Waverly had Sections V and VI create full dossiers on Solo and Walters. Both men had exemplary records. He was astonished to discover that Solo had been field-promoted to second lieutenant when his platoon leader was killed in a fierce battle and Solo had led the remaining troops to an eventual victory. For that, he had earned a Silver Star as well.

The agents also had flaws. Solo's principal peccadillo seemed to be women, though he had apparently been faithful to his wife during their short marriage. Walters possessed such a strong protective instinct that he tended to be overly enthusiastic in expressing it.

Both men had been recruited by the FBI and the CIA, Solo while he was still in the Army and Walters after his discharge. They had become friends at Langley—unusual in this age of blatant racism—and were partnered for the Europe assignment. They were successful in finding a number of businesses financing what was a suspected Fourth Reich whose goal was to destroy the U.S.

He hoped he wouldn't have to wait long before hearing from them both requesting a formal interview.

**11**

_July 1954, U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York City_

Alex pressed the lever down on the intercom box. "Yes, Mrs. Higgins?"

"Mr. Solo is here, sir," replied the Korean war widow currently in training to be one of Waverly's assistants.

"Very good. Please send him in. And some coffee would be nice, as well as aspirin. I'm sure Mr. Solo would appreciate both. Oh, and my black tea blend, of course."

"Yes, sir."

The dapper young man, exhibiting a curious blend of nonchalance and confidence, strolled into the office. Only a small, passing grimace and a wobbly step or two revealed something was awry.

"Ah, Mr. Solo. Please sit. Can't very well have you falling down. Our truth serum often leaves one with gait problems and a smashingly bad headache."

Solo gave the older man a grateful smile as he sat in the chair facing Waverly. "Ah, that was an … interesting experience. I assume I passed since I'm still here."

"That you did, Mr. Solo." He cleared his throat and opened the folder in front of him. "Your credentials are impressive. You speak several Romance languages fluently. You left college, where you excelled in academics and track and field, to join the Army and served with honor and distinction in Korea. There is more, but I believe you are aware of your accomplishments."

Solo gave him an ingratiating smile. _A manipulator and quite a good one_, _I suspect, _thought Alex.

"I'm sure my résumé can't begin to compare to yours, sir," said Napoleon. "I've heard talk of your exploits in both world wars. Now _that's_ impressive. I would really enjoy hearing more about them, if you don't mind."

Alex almost began reciting pieces of his past but stopped once he realized Solo had nearly disarmed him as the interviewer. _Well played, young man_, he thought before continuing, "Perhaps another time, if you don't mind."

A knock at the door halted the conversation. Mrs. Higgins let herself in, balancing a loaded tray in one hand.

Immediately, Solo jumped up. "Please, allow me," he offered, giving her no choice as he took the tray from her.

"Thank you, Mr. Solo. Mr. Waverly -"

Alex cut her off with a gentle wave of his hand. "You may leave, Mrs. Higgins. I am sure Mr., uh, Solo and I can manage."

Napoleon set the tray on the table. Before he could pour anything, Alex said, "Mr. Solo, you are just the type of person I want in this organization. The job is yours if you want it."

"Thank you, Mr. Waverly. I accept."

Alex couldn't deny his pleasure in having Solo join U.N.C.L.E. His sixth sense told him the man would prove to be more than exceptional.

**2**

_February 1956, The Kremlin, Moscow, Soviet Union_

"Thank you for your time, Captain, um, Levkov. You will be notified of my decision in due time."

"Thank you, Mr. Waverly," said the Army captain in heavily-accented English. "I would be honored to work for the U.N.C.L.E." He bowed and left the interview room.

Alex frowned. The two candidates he had interviewed would make acceptable agents but in order for this pipe-dream-come-true to work, he needed someone more than acceptable, someone exceptional. Someone who could handle the unforgiving scrutiny, adversity, and hostility he would inevitably experience as a Soviet, excel at most skills while maintaining humility, think for himself. That last would be the most difficult trait to find in any Soviet candidate.

Sighing, eyes tired from reading smudged print, he picked up the final dossier. He opened it and instantly recognized the indomitable eyes peering back at him. _Illyusha. You survived!_

He smiled to himself while he reviewed the information. Navy lieutenant, extensive training with the GRU and KGB—likely still an agent for them—and much more and in such a short time. There was no wonder why Illyusha had never contacted him; the Soviets, recognizing their prize, had kept the boy on a short and tight leash. Until now, that is.

Alex, wanting to avoid audio surveillance of their meeting, quickly formulated a plan. He stood and shuffled to the door. He opened it slowly to come face to face with his "chaperon." He caught a glimpse of Illyusha in uniform sitting rigidly on a bench.

"Captain, I need to stretch my legs. If there is no objection, I'd like to have this, uh, Kuryakin fellow accompany me. I will conduct the interview during this excursion, of course."

The directive clearly flustered the officer. "But sir, it is very cold. I doubt you would be comfortable."

"Young man, I lived through two world wars clothed in less than I'm wearing now. A bit of cold will not be a bother."

Soon, Alex Waverly had his wish.

oOo

While in the shadow of the Kremlin, neither man let on he knew the other. Alex took the opportunity to study the man he had only known as a boy intent on survival and freedom. He was a little smaller than average, thanks to too many years of deprivation. Beneath the tailored uniform, it was apparent he was quite fit and healthy. The Soviet Union, it seemed, ensured that at least their military personnel had proper diet and exercise.

Once near the center of Red Square, Alex stopped. Kuryakin followed suit immediately.

In French, Alex said, "It is most gratifying to see you, Illyusha. You have grown into a man your father would be most proud of."

Following Alex's lead in both language and name use, Kuryakin replied, "Thank you, Sasha. It is my pleasure to see you again."

"As far as I'm concerned, young man, there is no need for an interview. I want you to represent your country in U.N.C.L.E."

"I do not think you want me, sir."

"Why is that, pray tell?"

"Almost two years ago, in Bruges, I was assigned to assassinate two American CIA agents."

_Of course his country would use this particular skill of his, as I thought it would_. "That was you?"

"Yes, sir. They were of no true consequence to my country except they were American spies. I … missed, and in doing so, I disobeyed orders. U.N.C.L.E. and you should not have someone such as myself as an agent."

Alex studied the man who stood before him stiff with regret. _So he can think for himself_. "Lieutenant Kuryakin, you are _exactly_ what my organization is looking for in an agent. Will you accept my offer?"

Kuryakin broke into an uncharacteristic grin exuding surprise and relief. "I would be honored, Mr. Waverly."

Waverly cleared his throat as he framed his next question. "Your background and qualifications are quite remarkable, young man. The Soviet Union must consider you to be quite valuable. Why are they willing to let you go?"

A momentary flash of something—_Melancholy?_—crossed Kuryakin's face. "I have no one they can use against me," he said in a shy, almost plaintive voice.

Alex nodded sedately, successfully hiding both his elation at this extraordinary man agreeing to join U.N.C.L.E. and his sorrow that this young man had no one. With time, Alex hoped, U.N.C.L.E. would be his surrogate family.

**11 + 2 = Partners**

_July 1956, U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York City_

"Excellent work, Mrs. Higgins," said Alexander Waverly. "Your value as my assistant continues to grow quite satisfactorily."

"Thank you, sir. Decoding your messages is, well, fun."

"Very good. That will be all for now. When Mr. Sloan arrives, please show him in immediately."

The young widow nodded and left.

As he waited for Sloan, he pondered the messages. Europe was still volatile and THRUSH was taking advantage of that. Harry Beldon was too self-involved and somewhat lazy, in Waverly's opinion, to see the big picture. Additionally, his sixth sense warned him Beldon was not fully trustworthy. He needed his own inside man in Northeast but there were no candidates.

Then there was Jules Cutter's report from the Survival School. To no surprise on Waverly's part, Illya Kuryakin was the top candidate in every skill. This past week, the Russian lad had broken two of Napoleon Solo's records. He chuckled at that as he wondered how the competitive Solo, an exceptional agent by anyone's standards, would take this news. _Perhaps I should partner the two as a trial. No doubt they would be formidable. First I must succeed in convincing Washington to agree to allow U.N.C.L.E. to employ a Soviet, albeit former, agent in this country_.

A soft throat-clearing dragged him from his rumination.

"Ah, Mr. Sloan. Please be seated."

The Section V chief said, "Good afternoon, sir," and handed him a printed copy of his report before sitting. "The sensors have been installed, programmed, and tested successfully. We're ready for the security badge assignments."

"Very good. Is there some sort of protocol for the assignments?"

"Not really, sir, except for your badge—number 1 for obvious reasons—and numbers 2 through 15 for other Section I personnel and Section II agents with the proper clearance. With your permission, I'll assign those as well as the others -"

Alex waved his hand to interrupt Sloan. "Of course. However, I shall assign numbers 2 and 11."

A bewildered Sloan said, "Uh, certainly, Mr. Waverly. And who will they be, sir? For the record?"

"I will let you know, Mr. Sloan, when I have decided. Good job with improving security. That will be all." Alex paid no heed to Sloan's leave-taking. Instead he was wondering why those two numbers had significance for him.

He momentarily stopped mulling over his reasons for personally assigning the numbers to open the intercom to his assistant. "Mrs., um, Higgins. Would you kindly hold any non-emergent contacts for, oh, the next 15 minutes?"

"Yes, Mr. Waverly. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you, not at this time." He released the lever and immediately reached for his pipe and humidor. As he carefully stuffed the pipe with his special blend, he returned to his deliberations about 2 and 11.

The eleventh hour … prime number … master number in numerology … end of the Great War on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month … atomic number of sodium ...

"Bah! This is ridiculous."

Yet he couldn't let it go. Thinking it might help, he wrote the number down and stared at it as if it might come alive and speak to him. Then he noticed how far apart he'd spaced the two digits. He now saw it as _two_ numbers, not a single number.

The heir apparent for the Section 1, Number 1 position.

Presumably, that would be the head of Section II. However, Dean Clark, though an excellent section chief, lacked the temperament and certain necessary skills.

Waverly lit a match and watched it flicker blue and yellow as he considered the list Section II agents. When the flame was millimeters shy of burning his fingers, he knew who would be assigned the 11 badge—Napoleon Solo.

The charming, empathetic, diplomatic, manipulative, brilliant strategist would be promoted to senior status within the next month—the fastest climb of anyone ever in that section across the organization. Yes, Solo would most likely be his successor.

Waverly blew out the match, a symbol of closure, almost. There was still the number 2 badge.

Figuring out the meaning of that badge came easier to him. It should be assigned to the agent who was the go-_two_ for highly sensitive operations that required a particular kind of ruthlessness. Certainly Solo could be and was ruthless when it was called for, but he didn't have the laser-sharp edge to that trait he was looking for. He needed someone who had a personal connection, even compulsion, to protect Number 1 of Policy and Operations and some of the secrets that went with that position, someone who could carry out distasteful but necessary missions, could survive out of sheer spite and tenacious will despite the odds.

There was no doubt in Alex's mind that Illya Kuryakin should and eventually would wear that number. He would have to wait before assigning it because most people would assume that whoever wore that badge was next in line for Section I chief. He would have to time its assignment after most people had come to accept Solo as his likely successor.

He could only hope that Kuryakin would develop that personal connection with Solo that would keep them both alive while in Section II and carry over when Solo moved to Section I. Now to start work on the daunting task of getting Kuryakin approved to work in the United States and partnered with Solo.

Waverly lit another match and touched it to the packed tobacco, sucking on the pipe stem until it was smoking. After several satisfying inhalations, he dialed the Section V head's extension.

"Sloan here."

"Mr. Sloan, please assign number 11 to Napoleon Solo. As for the 2, that will remain unassigned for now."

**Epilogue**

_after The Vulcan Affair, 1964_

"Congratulations, Illya," Napoleon said as he pinned the number 2 badge on his partner's shirt. "You're the first official second in command in Section II."

"Thank you, Napoleon. It is curious, though, that such a position was virtually non-existent until now."

"I'm sure Mr. Waverly had his reasons, and I personally will leave it at that. Come on, let's go for drinks and dinner at Romano's. My treat."

"I would prefer a restaurant that THRUSH does not know you frequent. Last time there, my dessert was rudely annihilated by a bullet meant for you."

"I did get you another panna cotta once things settled down."

"That you did, in addition to biscotti and coffee." Illya paused before saying, "Romano's will be suitable, but only if we sit near the kitchen."

"For a quick getaway."

"No. For food at its optimal temperature."

**the end**

2019

This story in part was inspired by LRH Balzer, a superb writer, who has her own theory why IK's badge number was 2. Highly recommend all 10 volumes of her _Man from UNCLE Collection_ and her _Reemergence_ series, which is a multiple-fandom crossover that includes a strong MFU presence (both are alternate universes). Search for _lonemonkeyezines_.

An agent named only Jason (played by Rosey Grier in his acting debut) guarded Waverly in _The Brain-Killer Affair._

Thanks to CoriKay for her always spot-on beta.


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